CHINESE BOXES

I am time boxing–slating the hour, unit, segments, arcs, triangles, angles, parallelograms, fractals, Mobius strips, spheres.

There is just so much to do. You know.

Infinite syntaxes–Chinese boxes.

The intricate novel-quilt, Jacob’s magical cloak invented and upended to lead a lost people.

Box of coneflower, double-blossom daisy-frill, lavender butterfly spears of tiniest florets.

Box of necessary sunlight (thankfully muted for photophobic retinas)–layered with opal cloud-light that ruffle the cornflower blues–these last days of summer.

Box of travel–empty. For now.

Suitcase of Diaphanous text, asemic pictures from a point on the diagram-map across treacherous waters.

Document boxes—the appeal, the passport renewal, grant application, the dog license, insurance claim for the termites eating at the House–the dying, falling, ancient pine—that shan’t be covered.

Boxes of opening sky paintings—uncategorical color, dimensions in the distance one cannot touch.

Box of voices—the ghosts in the House, the dead inside—pleading “don’t forget me.”

Random buttons in a broken box of opaque glass—the latch rusted from being forgotten in the rain.

Box of plans—free-floating bucket lists.

Closets of notebooks—hidden behaviors–and the most personal of rituals.

Last night—I journeyed to the edges of time–and offered a humble sacrifice for all of us.

Yes, I confess—to the weeping and lying in the rain-slobbered grass the dog had frolicked in on his back earlier in the day as if to say–“touch and love me. Stay. Stay–as long as possible.”

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